


Solare Maerorem

by Black_Crystal_Dragon



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e12 The Sound of Drums, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-11
Updated: 2008-04-11
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7198223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Crystal_Dragon/pseuds/Black_Crystal_Dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Reality is determined not by what scientists or anyone else says or believes but by what the evidence reveals to us.” – Alan Hale. After the Master's death, the Doctor is having trouble dealing with his grief; the TARDIS decides to help him ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solare Maerorem

**Author's Note:**

> _Dubious_ Consent. It's not exactly non-con, but it leans in that direction.
> 
> I wrote this because LJ user mia_v made a request, and I couldn't say no.  
> The Alan Hale quote in the summary also appears in the fic; it has been italicised.  
> The title is in Latin. Solare Maerorem translates as 'to ease his grief' (if my Latin is up to scratch). It sounds better in Latin ...  
> Thanks to B_C_Hawk whose beta work and general help and poking was truly invaluable. I couldn't've pulled it off without her!
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

**I**

She should have known better than to let the Master touch her.

She _did_ know better, but hope made her foolish; he was the last, but for the Doctor, and she thought that had to mean something – even to the Master, though he was broken and twisted and perhaps beyond repair. She wished instead she had thrown sparks from her controls, or locked her doors to him while he was still aged and dying.

Then came the defilement.

The Master’s hands had stroked her, fondling her in a sick parody of the Doctor’s tender caresses as he ripped her insides out and rearranged them to suit his pleasure. He had turned her blood red and cruel, and she had helped him will all the power in her golden heart. And afterwards, despite it all, when the world had ended and been reborn in a year that no one could remember, the Doctor put her back together.

He worked slowly, with the precision of a watchmaker, the concern of a parent, and as he worked, her thoughts regained lucidity. She once again began to glow with gentler colours, bleaching the red light from the walls with green and gold.

Then the grief came. She shared it with him, felt it just as keenly, humming in her walls and floor and all her tiny components. She ached with it; it throbbed with every echoed beat of his hearts, more terrible than the Master’s drums – and still, he worked on her, gently putting her parts back into their right places.

He showed more concern for her, the one who had betrayed him and granted the Master such power, than for himself. He hid the pain from the world and banished it to the back of his mind, but he could not keep it from her.

She wanted to hate the Master; what he had done to her had broken parts of her irreparably, and what he had done to her Doctor by allowing himself to die was far worse than anything he had inflicted on her. She wanted to allow the hate to coil up within her columns and blossom out to fill every fibre and cable and board. She wanted to let it consume her – but she could not.

 

**II**

He had his head under the TARDIS console, fiddling with bundles of wires and zapping them occasionally with his sonic screwdriver, when the lights dipped and stayed dim. The console itself went dark in a shower of brilliant white sparks that showered down onto his head.

The Doctor’s eyes went wide behind his glasses. He shot out from under the console and kicked himself upright, already half-shouting. “No – no, _no_ , NO! Not the main power supply, tell me he didn’t mess with the power supply –”

He dropped to his knees and shoved the screwdriver between his teeth, reaching for the access panel in the floor. Before he could lift it, however, the TARDIS gave a calming hum. The Doctor stopped and watched, frowning in confusion, as a light flickered on the console. Gradually, others followed, blinking on across the console.

When most of the lights were back on, he cautiously climbed to his feet and took the sonic screwdriver from his mouth, shoving it into his pocket as he approached. He gently laid one hand on the smooth rim of the console.

“What is it, girl?” he breathed as the light within the central column faded back up to its normal intensity. “Come on, speak to me.”

Nothing happened; the TARDIS continued to make its barely-there purring, and the Doctor received no sudden burst of enlightenment about the source of the problem. He sighed deeply, dropped his chin down onto his chest and allowed himself a brief moment of utter self-pity.

Then he pulled himself together, took a deep breath and stood up straight. He stared at his warped reflection in the central column for a moment and ran his fingers through his hair, plastering on a grin. At least he still had the TARDIS, even when the world was falling apart outside the doors. “Right then. Looks like I’ll just have to find what’s wrong with you myself then, eh?”

He whirled around and dropped to his knees again, hooking his fingers into the mesh floor. He pulled up the access panel and was about to drop into the hollow space below the floor when the sound of a footstep halted him. The Doctor looked up sharply and froze, his eyes widening behind the thick-rimmed glasses. A double-heartbeat passed, then he whipped them from his face, his face screwing up in confusion. 

The Master grinned and raised one hand, wiggling his fingers in a delicate, sardonic greeting.

 

**I**

She could feel his confusion, his shock and disbelief, and the overpowering optimism that was always his undoing. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, he was trying to convince himself that this was really the Master standing before him. She could feel his mind wrestling with itself, his scepticism trying to strangle the hope that refused to simply die.

She suddenly felt cruel, and could not even pretend that this cruelty was kindness in another form.

He was already broken enough from losing the Master once, and to give him back a pale illusion of what he had lost only to rip it away again was nothing more than callous torture – but his hearts were beating as quickly as the Master’s drums, and in their feverish rhythm she could sense his desperation. He needed this to be real, even if it was only real for a time.

She knew better than to allow him such a fleeting and partial joy. She knew that it would only break him all over again. Yet she could do nothing; all she wanted was for her Doctor to be happy, and she could feel his implausible, impossible pleasure spreading as the other stepped around one of her arched supports.

 _My Doctor, my poor Doctor_ , she thought, her feelings winding out of her like cotton from a reel, _I am sorry for what I am about to do …_

 

**II**

“ _What_?” the Doctor spluttered, scrambling to his feet and fumbling for his sonic screwdriver as the Master began to stroll around the TARDIS console, tapping his fingers along the rim – _da-da-da-dum – da-da-da-dum – da-da-da-dum_ – as he walked. The Doctor watched him until he was out of sight, then dropped his gaze to the screwdriver.

“You’ve done such a good job, I’m surprised!” the Master told him, peering around the central column. He sounded genuinely pleased, as if the Doctor was a dog who had performed a particularly impressive trick. “After what I did to this thing, I thought it would take you … oh, weeks to get her going again!”

The Doctor ignored him and continued to fiddle with the screwdriver, trying to find the right setting. He could feel the Master watching him, and heard him chuckle. He watched him out of the corner of his eye as he approached, but still wasn’t ready when the Master placed one hand gently on his shoulder.

The Doctor flinched, jerking away from the touch and whirling to face him. The Master looked down at the screwdriver, inches from his face, and then raised one eyebrow. “Am I supposed to be _scared_?”

“You can’t be real,” the Doctor snarled. “You died; I burned you. You’re _gone_ –”

His voice broke and he turned his face away, dropping the screwdriver to his side, unable to even look at the Master. It was too difficult; he was real enough for it to hurt that it was all some kind of trick. The Master stroked one finger down the Doctor’s cheek and tilted his head on one side. His expression was one of pure devilment as he asked, “Did you miss me, Doctor?”

The Doctor snarled again, spinning to face the Master and grabbing hold of his lapels. “This isn’t real, and it’s _not funny_.”

The Master chuckled, leaning closer until his breath ghosted across the Doctor’s face. “ _Reality is determined not by what scientists or anyone else says or believes but by what the evidence reveals to us._ And what is the evidence revealing to you, Doctor?”

“That you’re here,” the Doctor breathed, his eyelids fluttering closed. His fingers were still bunched in the material of the Master’s black suit; very slowly, he let go and dropped his hands to his sides. “That I’m not alone.”

“That’s right,” the Master said sweetly, bringing his hands up to the Doctor’s hips and guiding him backwards until he was against the console. Then he took another half-step closer until his cheek was against the Doctor’s. The Doctor’s breath shook as the Master murmured, “I’m here, Doctor. I’m here – and you _want_ me. Don’t you, Doctor. Why don’t you tell me what you want.”

The Master must have felt the shudder run through the Doctor’s body, heard him take a shaking breath. The Doctor’s voice was thick with tears he dared not shed when he spoke. “You. You and I, we’re the only ones left, and I – Master, please.”

 

**I**

All his mental barriers lay broken; she could see them scattered across the bottom of his mind, and wanted to weep for him. The loss of Gallifrey and the Time Lords had made her Doctor weak, and it hurt her to see him so vulnerable.

With the barriers gone, however, she was afforded a clear view of the landscape of his mind – from the deep and recent welts caused by the Time War to the carefully contained muddle of emotions relating to Rose – every want and fear and need laid bare to her scrutiny.

It was always easy for her to find what he wanted in the immediate present, but now she could tap into every thought, every desire he had ever entertained that related to the Master. She wound through his mind like a cat around her master’s legs, seeking out what she wanted – what he wanted – and tried to shove aside her guilt as she followed threads of memory and daydream into the dark places of the Doctor’s subconscious.

 

**II**

The Doctor swallowed hard when the Master pulled away, his eyes wide and frightened-bright, his breathing laboured. The Master chuckled and threaded his fingers into the Doctor’s hair, pulling him down until their foreheads were pressed together. “Say it again.”

“Master,” the Doctor breathed, shame at the note of desperation in his voice tingeing his cheeks pink. The Master smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, pulling back quickly and eliciting a whimper from the Doctor. “ _Please_ –”

The Master tugged hard on the Doctor’s hair, making him wince. “Please what?”

“Touch me,” the Doctor gasped between ragged breaths, sliding both hands under the Master’s jacket and fisting them into his shirt. “Let me just – take me. Please, kiss me again –”

As the Master leant closer, the Doctor’s fingers clenched at the Master’s sides, then dragged him closer when their lips met. The Master drew the Doctor’s tongue into his mouth and curled his own around it for a moment, then bit down sharply. The Doctor pulled back with a yelp of pain, bringing one hand up towards his mouth, but the Master was faster, pressing into another, deeper kiss.

It turned out more a fight for dominance than a kiss, violent and sloppy, all teeth and tongue. The Doctor’s raised hand latched around the back of the Master’s head, fingers painfully tight against his throat. The Master’s fingers wrenched at the Doctor’s hair, tilting his head to whatever angle he desired. The Doctor moaned into his mouth and he pressed closer, his whole body pressed flush against the Doctor’s.

Finally, they broke apart, panting, and the Doctor took a breath and began to talk, the words spilling from his lips almost involuntarily. “Please – please don’t stop – touch me – _Master_ –”

The Master stared at him, slowly loosening his grip on the Doctor’s hair and sliding his hands down to his waist. Once the Master’s arms were out of the way, the Doctor began to scrabble at his jacket, trying to shove it from his shoulders; the Master smirked. The Doctor ignored him, continuing to babble at such a pace that he was half incoherent. “Want you – want you, Master – oh, for the love of – touch me, _touch me_ – Master, please – _please_ , I need – c’mon, help me here – please, let me –”

“Do you ever stop _wittering_ to yourself?” the Master laughed as he shrugged his jacket off and watched the Doctor fumbling with his shirt buttons, still talking at a mile a minute.

Once the buttons were dealt with, the Master shoved the Doctor off him and pinned him to the TARDIS’ glowing console, grinning wildly. “Do you scream when you come, Doctor? Do you? Or has it been so long you can’t remember?”

“Shut up,” the Doctor snapped half-heartedly, squirming under the Master’s body, still trying to wrestle him out of his shirt. The Master shook his head, then dropped it onto the Doctor’s chest and laughed. The Doctor raised one hand and stroked his hair, eliciting a murmur of appreciation from the Master. For a moment, they were still, then the Master pulled back and folded his arms across his half-bared chest.

“Well, this is hardly fair, is it?”

“The Master? Play fair?” the Doctor asked, raising his eyebrows and running his fingers through his mussed hair. “Not heard that one before …”

The Master stepped back once again and leant against one of the supports, a genuine half-smile gracing his lips and making his face handsome. “Strip for me, Doctor.”

“And how will that be fair?” the Doctor complained as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it to the floor. He started unbuttoning his jacket. “I’ll be naked, and you’ll still be mostly dressed.”

The Master cocked his head on one side and watched with eyes narrowed in concentration as the Doctor slid his jacket off and dropped it to join his coat. “Sounds fair to me.”

“And what if I refuse?” the Doctor chuckled, careful to keep his eyes locked on the Master’s as he started on his shirt buttons, toeing off his shoes and socks at the same time.

The Master’s eyebrows shot up. “You would dare to refuse your Master?”

He advanced on the Doctor, taking hold of his unfastened shirt and tugging him a step closer. The Doctor’s lips twitched up at the corners. “Oh, I might.”

A heartbeat later, and they were kissing again. The Doctor stumbled backwards until his thighs hit the edge of the console; his splayed fingers dropped to the smooth rim, keeping him steady. He whimpered when the Master shoved a leg between his thighs, trapping his hips between the console and the Master’s own body.

 

**I**

There was fire in the Doctor’s blood and she could feel it burning, restless as mercury in his veins.

Were she more than a machine, she would have blushed to see the Doctor arched so wantonly over her controls; her breath would have caught at the sound of his moans. Instead, her walls glowed a richer shade of gold as she brushed the recesses of his mind, coaxing his desires out of him.

So many things that he wanted, so many that were dangerously fresh in his mind. She brushed a dream-memory, and almost shuddered when she realised how deeply his yearning for the Master ran.

_Oh, Doctor – Doctor – forgive me –_

 

**II**

The Doctor trembled when the Master switched their positions and shoved him to his knees. He stared up into the Master’s dark eyes and swallowed hard, his wide eyes granting him an air of innocence despite his kiss-swollen lips and the flush of arousal dusted across his cheeks. The Master raised his eyebrows.

“Well? What’re you waiting for, _permission_?” he sneered, reaching down and making quick work of the fastenings of his trousers. He shoved them down – no underwear, the Doctor noticed – freeing his already hardened cock. The Doctor watched as he stroked himself.

“Go on then, Doctor,” the Master breathed, his voice only slightly husky. “Or don’t _saints_ know how to give head?”

The Doctor’s blush darkened and he lowered his gaze. He licked his lips and reached up, wrapping his fingers around the base of the Master’s cock. The Master hissed as he tightened his fingers for the downward stroke and, with a final, lidded glance up at the Master’s face – tipped back so that his throat was stretched, his mouth open wide and his chest heaving – the Doctor leant forwards and took the Master into his mouth.

“That’s it, Doctor,” the Master gasped as the Doctor inched his lips further up his shaft. “Put that big mouth of yours to good use for once.”

He grabbed handfuls of the Doctor’s hair, twisting his fingers painfully into his locks and forcing him to wok faster. The Doctor made a small noise of protest at the back of his throat and closed his eyes; he heard the Master chuckle, and then without warning he thrust his hips forwards.

The Doctor’s throat contracted against the sudden invasion, tears springing to his eyes as he forced himself to breathe through his nose and not close his mouth. It was almost worth having his hair pulled and his mouth thoroughly fucked to hear the Master’s little gasping noises, for the ragged moans that tore from his throat as the Doctor whimpered against his cock and tried to swallow.

Almost, but not quite; his knees hurt from kneeling on the unforgiving metal, his nose was running, his throat felt raw, and he couldn’t breathe – and the Master didn’t care despite all his little inarticulate protests.

Finally, the Master shoved him backwards and the Doctor went sprawled across the floor, gasping for breath, his eyes streaming. After a few seconds he looked up at the Master, his dilated pupils stuttering to a halt on their way to his eyes to watch him lazily stroking his cock.

The Master huffed a half-laugh and shook his head. “You want more, Doctor? After what I just did to you? Ooh, you little _masochist_.”

He sounded far too pleased with himself for the Doctor’s liking. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, clinging to the arched support closest to him. “Don’t. I mean it, _don’t_.”

His voice was hoarse. The Master laughed. “Don’t what? Make you come in your pants right now? Hmm, all right then, I suppose I can concede to that.”

“Stop it,” the Doctor spat. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the burning in his throat. He took a couple of steps closer to the Master. “Please, it doesn’t have to be – we could –”

The Master lunged at the Doctor before he could finish, grabbing his arm and swinging him around until he slammed into the console, his momentum sending him sprawling across the controls. He slid the palm of one hand onto the back of the Doctor’s neck and forced his face down until it was inches from the TARDIS’ controls. “Please …?”

“Please, Master,” the Doctor breathed, his eyes fluttering closed. The Master chuckled to himself, reaching across to pluck at the Doctor’s sweat-marked shirt.

“This. Off.”

The Doctor obeyed, awkwardly because of the position the Master had forced him into, then dropped it to the floor. The Master ran one finger down the Doctor’s spine, and he trembled. “Master …”

“Yes?” the Master breathed, leaning down until he was almost lying over the Doctor’s back, his breath tickling the back of his neck. “Was there something you wanted, Doctor?”

“Please – just – _please_!” the Doctor gasped as the Master rocked his hips forwards, one thigh pushing between the Doctor’s legs. The Doctor gritted his teeth; he could feel his cheeks burning. “I want – I _need_ –”

The Master pressed a kiss to the base of his neck, then reached his free hand around the Doctor’s waist and unfastened his trousers, pulling them down just far enough to free his straining erection. The Doctor hissed when the Master bit down on his shoulder, his teeth grazing over-sensitive skin and leaving white marks that immediately turned red. 

“Tell me, Doctor. Tell me what you want,” the Master purred, sliding one hand around the Doctor’s waist to his cock. The Doctor gasped and arched as the Master started a slow rhythm, unable to do more than whimper in protest when the Master’s other hand came up to his mouth and he pressed his fingers inside, slicking them with the Doctor’s saliva.

“I _said_ tell me, Doctor,” the Master growled as he pulled his fingers from the Doctor’s mouth, slid them under the waistband of his trousers and boxers, and pressed them to his entrance. He pushed two fingers inside at once and the Doctor cried out, his fingers clutching at the TARDIS’ controls, his face contorted in pain. He felt the Master smirk against his skin as he added a third finger and thrust them deeper. “Talk to me – I want to hear it in your voice when I break you …”

“Take me!” the Doctor yelped as the Master tightened his grip at the base of his cock, spread his fingers. “Master – take me, I want – need you inside me – now, now, Master, please – please –”

The Master huffed a laugh between the Doctor’s shoulderblades at his incoherent blathering, then released him and stepped back, pulling his fingers back. The Doctor half-turned to look back at him, eyes wide and pupils dilated, distress written all over his features. “Master?”

He watched as the Master raised one hand and made a circling motion with one finger – _turn around_. Cautiously, wary of the Master’s broad smirk, the Doctor turned. He suddenly felt self-conscious, highly aware of the bare skin the Master could see, and dropped his gaze to the floor. His ears and the back of his neck were scarlet with embarrassment as he felt the Master’s eyes sweep up and down his body in an almost painfully slow appraisal of him.

The Doctor counted the time in accelerating heartbeats. He felt too exposed, vulnerable; the Master could do whatever he wanted, and he knew he would be powerless to stop him. He shifted uncomfortably, his pinstriped trousers slipping further down his hips. He caught them and hitched them back up without thinking, then realised what he had done and bit his lip nervously, afraid of some kind of punishment. He didn’t dare look up.

Panic scrabbled at the edges of his mind as the pause lengthened, but he refused to let it take hold; he had already been thrown off-kilter by the Master’s sudden and impossible appearance, and panicking would only give him another edge. He swallowed hard and tried to slow his hearts’ frantic beating.

He was concentrating so hard on calming himself that he barely noticed the Master’s approach until soothing hands cupped his face and tilted his head up. “Doctor …”

The Master’s voice was almost tender as his thumbs skimmed over the Doctor’s high cheekbones. The Doctor trembled at the touch; he hadn’t been expecting such gentleness from the Master, and it unnerved him completely.

His eyes slid closed as the Master leant close, pressing a series of feather-light kisses to his lips. The Doctor’s fingers clenched into fists by his sides, wanting but not daring to touch as the Master’s hands slid from his face to his throat, across his shoulders and down his arms to hold his wrists. Only then did the Master lean into a fully-fledged kiss that pushed the Doctor back against the console and took what little breath he had away. As the Master teased his lips apart, he raised the Doctor’s hands to his waist, pressing the palms to his skin. For a moment the Doctor froze, then the Master moaned against his mouth and the Doctor melted into him, his fingers skittering over the Master’s skin.

Between them they made short work of the Master’s shirt and the Doctor’s remaining clothes without breaking the kiss. Finally, they broke apart for breath and the Doctor dropped his forehead down onto the Master’s shoulder.

“Please,” he whispered, arching as the Master ran a thumb down his spine. “Master –”

He heard the Master’s breath hitch, felt warm fingers tighten against his hipbone and swallowed hard. “ _Master_.”

The Master’s other hand dropped to the Doctor’s hip, lifting his slender frame easily and depositing him on the cool, smooth edge of the console. The Doctor gasped in surprise and looked up, eyes wide, as the Master stepped between his legs and pulled him close, his fingers tapping his incessant drumbeat against the Doctor’s skin.

“Master,” he breathed, his voice husky and low, just to see the Master’s eyes flutter closed.

It took the Master a moment to recover himself, but when he did, he wasted no more time; he tugged on the Doctor’s hips and thrust into him without any more warning than a low growl. As he did so, the Master’s eyes flew open and he just caught the helpless dilation of the Doctor's pupils as he was entered.

The Doctor’s body tried to fight as the Master pressed deeper, his struggles futile and mostly for show despite the pain. He squirmed as the Master leant over him, his hands coming up to scrabble at the Master’s shoulders, incapable of pushing him away yet unable to justify pulling him closer.

“Please,” he gasped, his voice thin and needy. “Please, Master –”

For a moment, the Master closed his eyes again. Then he braced one hand on the TARDIS console, grabbing a handful of the Doctor’s hair with the other and pulling his head back to lick up the corded tendons in his throat.

“Doctor,” the Master breathed against his jaw. He chuckled, not cruelly, and loosened his hold on the Doctor’s hair. “’S good, isn’t it? How long has it been, Doctor? Years? Decades? _Centuries_?”

The Doctor was surprised to hear the pity in the Master’s voice. He curled his fingers around the back of the Master’s sweat-slick neck, his breath coming in shallow gulps of air that stuck in his too-tight throat. He couldn’t scrape together the breath to answer. A moment later, when the Master jerked his hips and he arched against him, he could not breathe at all.

He clung to the Master a little desperately, almost afraid of letting him go as he started a slow rhythm. He rested his forehead against the Master’s shoulder. His skin burned everywhere the Master touched, and he hated himself for submitting to such degradation, yet when a hand snaked between them to his erection, the Doctor could make no more protect than a strangled sob against the Master’s neck. It was too much of a perverse relief to be touched. The Master hummed in amusement as he began to stroke in time with his thrusts.

Breathless pleas for _more_ and _faster_ and _harder_ tore past the tightness in the Doctor’s throat and came out half-disguised as whimpers. He writhed when the Master complied with all three at once, his fingers clutching tight enough to bruise as the Master pounded into him. He felt the Master’s breath, hot and quick against his skin, then his teeth; he hissed at the almost-pain, his toes curling.

“Didn’t know you liked it rough, Doctor,” the Master panted, punctuating his words with powerful thrusts. His voice was laced with amusement. “Thought you’d want me gentle. Aren’t you scared you’ll break?”

The Doctor tried to stifle his tiny, licentious cries; they sounded monstrous to his own ears. The Master was right. He was scared, and it was beyond any fear he had felt before, but it was not of the Master’s brutality. This fear ran deeper, and was far more primal; it was fear of the darkness, and of reaching out to find not a monster, but simply nothing. The nothing was worse. He wanted to tell the Master, but the words would not come. He was barely able to think, let alone string together a coherent sentence, but this was important, so important. He had to say something that would somehow express the incommunicable.

“You broke me when you chose not to regenerate.”

It was a simply sentence, but saying it was difficult; the weight of it stuck in his throat until he swallowed and tried again. His voice was husky from the abuse of his throat, and low with arousal. It sounded strange, alien even to the Doctor himself.

The Master stilled at the end of a viciously hard thrust that drove the rest of his length inside the Doctor; he looked up, eyes wide with undisguised surprise. Recklessly, stupidly, the Doctor leant into a kiss. The Master flinched away, frowning, and the Doctor saw the confusion – _why, why are you letting me_ – bright in his eyes. He caught him around the back of the neck and dragged him closer, pressing his lips to the Master’s unresponsive mouth.

Despite the Master’s warmth, the Doctor was reminded of the chaste kiss he had stolen from his corpse before pulling the shroud over his face, and he trembled. At that the Master responded, bringing a hand up to stroke the Doctor’s ribcage as if to comfort before kissing back so fiercely that it undercut his tenderness.

Mingled with the scent of sweat and sex, the Doctor imagined that he could smell Gallifrey on the Master’s skin. It was faint, probably all in his mind, but he still sighed into the Master’s mouth. He tasted of the sky, of the ocean, of childhood dreams and days spent without cares to burden them. He tasted of friendship, but of betrayal, madness, hatred. He tasted wonderful and terrible all at once, and the Doctor had to shut his eyes against the memories, only to find himself unable to escape the never-ending images.

The Master’s hips started moving again, and the Doctor sobbed slightly, before it turned into a harsh groan that echoed around the TARDIS. The Master had lost none of his fervour, none of the blinding passion with which he had driven into the Doctor’s body before, but nonetheless he was suddenly gentler. Then the Master’s fingers, still wrapped around the base of the Doctor’s erection, started their deft strokes once again.

He whimpered into the Master’s mouth and was rewarded by a low moan deep in the Master’s throat. Everything was heart and glorious friction. The Doctor knew what it was to burn – with the purging fire of regeneration; with the cold flames of guilt and regret – but in all his years nothing had set him alight like this. He could feel the fire in his veins, the slow burn of want in his gut, and could not fight it.

The Master teased him so close to climax that he could do nothing but writhe against him, his hips jerking against the Master’s in an unspoken plea for more. Then the Master tightened his grip at the base and pulled out of their still-unbroken kiss. He laughed breathlessly.

“Don’t come.”

It was cruelty, but the Master’s voice was ragged and dusted with amusement, and the words sounded honeyed to the Doctor’s ears. He stared into the Master’s eyes and bit his lip, shook his head a fraction. The Master cocked his head on one side and smiled, then released him; the Doctor keened, tilting his head back and screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to hold back the release that was so tightly coiled that it was becoming almost painful.

“Master,” he gasped, unable to manage anything more. The Master huffed a laugh against his throat, then bent his head to suck his jugular. The Doctor squirmed helplessly as the Master slid a hand up his spine. Fingers tangled in his hair and tipped his head forwards, and then the Master’s open mouth met his.

The kiss was wet and messy, and the Doctor could feel the Master smirking against his lips as their tongues coiled together. He caught the Master’s wrist as he thrummed the Doctor’s ribs with his thumb, and felt the frantic double pulse that thundered just under his pale skin. Then he wrenched on the Master’s arm with a snarl, dragging his hand between them.

He forced the Master’s fingers to his cock, but even then he could not make him do more than brush feather-light touches to his skin. Then the Doctor gripped his wrist so tightly that the bones shifted and ground against one another. The Master’s muted whine of pain – or maybe pleasure – was almost lost against the Doctor’s lips, but he still heard it. His chest clenched painfully at the quiet sound, but then the Master tightened his fingers and rubbed his thumb over the head, and the Doctor’s remorse was smothered by pleasure.

The Master was as good at this as he was at hypnotism. His thick fingers were warm and smooth – in this regeneration, he had done nothing strenuous enough to give him calluses – and so talented. The Master could read the Doctor’s reactions as he changed his grip and speed easily, and so it wasn’t long before he found a combination that made the Doctor arch and clutch at him, making ridiculous, needy noises into his mouth.

He pulled out of the kiss and attacked the Doctor’s exposed throat with his teeth, not biting hard enough to leave lasting marks until he reached the bunch of muscles that connected neck and shoulder. He bit down hard enough to hurt, and the unexpected pain shocked the Doctor into a shuddering, howling climax.

The waves of pleasure receded slowly, and left the Doctor panting. He could feel the Master’s stubble grazing the hyper-sensitive skin of his shoulder, and his hot breath against his collarbone. Aside from the tremors that still shook the Doctor’s frame, and the Master’s fingers ghosting up and down the Doctor’s thigh, neither of them moved. Eventually, the Master muttered, “I thought I told you not to come.”

He sounded more sullen than outright angry, as if the Doctor had cheated him of something. The Doctor smiled and leant his cheek against the Master’s hair. “Oh, come on – be fair … After all, it’s your fault, you’re too good at this …”

“Oh, all right,” the Master replied after a moment’s consideration, raising his head so that they were cheek to cheek. “Can I have my hand back now?”

The Doctor twisted around to stare at him in confusion for a moment, then realised that he was still clutching the Master’s wrist painfully tightly. He let go as if burned, reaching behind him to steady himself between the TARDIS’ controls. The Master raised his hand and flexed the fingers with a hiss.

“Fuck,” he spat as he dropped his chin onto his chest. The Doctor frowned, an apology welling in his throat, but before he could act the Master rocked his hips forwards. It was only a small, tentative movement, but the Doctor heard the Master’s breath shudder as he gasped for air.

He slid his hands onto the Master’s bare shoulders as he withdrew a fraction and pushed back in, waited patiently for the next slow, uneven thrust. When the Master moved, the Doctor lifted his fingers from his skin, then dropped them one by one as the Master pressed into him again in a double imitation of the drumbeat that plagued him.

The effect on the Master was immediate. He stiffened, his head jerking up so that he could meet the Doctor’s gaze as he thrust again. The Doctor, careful not to break eye contact, tapped out the beat on his skin, and his eyes fluttered shut. “ _Fuck_.”

For a moment, the Master didn’t move. Then he looked up into the Doctor’s eyes again with an expression so full of hunger that it was almost frightening. He took a breath as if to speak, but the Doctor frowned and tugged him a fraction closer, tapping out the beat as he did so, and the words died in his throat. A low moan escaped his lips instead as he began to thrust into the Doctor again. The Doctor closed his eyes and tipped his head back, concentrating on the rhythm as he tapped it against the Master’s shoulders, the beat that had almost ended the world.

It felt like sacrilege, using the same rhythm that had done so much harm to bring the Master to orgasm. His eyes were wide and bright and slightly glazed, and it reminded the Doctor horribly of the moment before the Master had died; but then he came inside the Doctor with barely a sound but the stalling of his breath, and nothing could be more worth it than seeing him like this, his eyes suddenly blazing with life and pleasure and his fingers bruised the Doctor’s hipbones as he jerked into him a couple more times. The Doctor slowed his tapping to a stop, gently easing the Master closer until he could lean their foreheads together. He could feel his whole body trembling with the force of his climax.

There was silence, except for the Master’s ragged breathing. The Doctor slid his hands up the Master’s neck to cup his face, his thumbs stroking his temples. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Master.”

“Doctor,” the Master replied in a reverent whisper. His fingers skimmed up the Doctor’s sides and threaded into his sweat-spiked hair. They were still again for a while, until the Master nuzzled into a kiss. It was soft, close-mouthed and innocent, and when the Master pulled back he remained not a hair’s breadth from the Doctor’s lips as he murmured his name again.

The Doctor opened his eyes and stared into the Master’s. They were lust-dark, some muddy colour between grey and brown, the pupils still dilated; the Doctor could see sadness in them. He swallowed hard and swept his tongue across his bottom lip. “Don’t leave me.”

His voice was barely more than a sigh, a whisper of breath across the Master’s lips. The Master closed his eyes for a moment, and the Doctor felt his fingers tighten against his scalp. He ignored the sudden constriction of his throat, the burning behind his eyes, and whispered, “Please. Master. _Master_.”

“I can’t,” the Master breathed as he opened his eyes again. His voice was heavy with regret. The Doctor tried to pull away, but the Master held him in place, their foreheads touching. The Doctor closed his eyes, escaping from the Master another way.

He retreated into his mind to push his emotions down and in to lock them away, but before he could finish the Master tugged on his hair and broke his concentration, and they flooded back. He was unable to hold back a sob, and felt tears squeeze between his eyelids even as he screwed them tighter shut. The Master stroked his hair, sliding his hands onto the Doctor’s face and wiping the moisture from under his eyes with gentle thumbs. After a moment, the Master murmured, “Doctor?”

The Doctor opened his eyes to find the Master looking at him calmly, his expression full of regret. He took a deep breath and stroked the Master’s temples again. He tried to laugh as he spoke, but it died in his throat and came out hollow. “I was right about you, then.”

“Yes,” the Master replied simply, dropping his hands to the Doctor’s waist. The Doctor closed his eyes for a moment as the Master smiled sadly. “But you knew that.”

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor breathed. He pressed a kiss to the Master’s lips, pulled back reluctantly, too soon, and opened his eyes. He leant his forehead against the Master’s again and stared into his eyes. “But I didn’t want to believe it.”

“I’m sorry,” the Master breathed. He blinked, and the Doctor was surprised to see tears collecting on his eyelids. The Doctor smiled, a genuine if watery smile.

“I forgive you.”

The Master’s eyes closed, his fingers tightening for a moment against the Doctor’s waist as he took a short, sharp breath. His skin seemed to ripple beneath the Doctor’s fingers, glowing from within for a moment. Before the Doctor could react the Master was dissolving, becoming golden particles that hovered in the air, surrounded by a corona of brilliant light. For a moment, the light and dust maintained the Master’s shape and the Doctor could make out his face as he opened his eyes and smiled. He raised one barely-there hand to the Doctor’s cheek and he thought he felt the touch.

Then he took a breath and it was gone; there was nothing more than tendrils of gold smoke rising through the Doctor’s fingers and soaking into the TARDIS’ framework, becoming a part of the ship once again.

 

**I**

Guilt consumed her, eating away at her heart. Seeing the Doctor like this, feeling his mind writhe against reality as he forced himself to accept that he was alone again, made her feel worse than even the Master’s corruption. But she had given him what he wanted, only what he truly wanted, and it had at least distracted him from his misery. That was a comfort at least.

She brushed against his mind as she withdrew, wanting to know what good, if any, she had done. As she did so, she realised that the raw grief that had been laid over his mind like a shroud had healed a little, turned from angry red to the same, ugly colour of the Time War scars.

It was still there, and would always remain, but it was no longer bleeding regret over his whole mind, tainting every thought with echoes of what might have, could have, should have been.

Her remorse abated a little, although it remained as a heavy lump at the core of her consciousness. She had brought him comfort, taken the edge off his grief, but at a cost. He was so much more afraid – of being completely alone again in a universe that felt too big, and now of himself for allowing an image of the Master to completely unravel him – than he had been before. Giving him the Master for such a short time simply to replay the moments that were mid-way between memory and dream now seemed foolish – more stupid even than putting faith in the Master and expecting him to understand.

Then the Doctor smiled and leant back until he was resting against the central column of her control panel, his fingers brushing her various levers and buttons lightly, not touching firmly enough to activate anything.

She could feel the grief in his mind, but it was an echo compared to before, when he had just come from burning the Master’s body. Then he opened his mind to her, for the first time since the Time War, and it was so different to skulking through the hidden places of his consciousness looking for secret things. She felt his forgiveness reverberating through her every atom as he brushed her controls with gentle fingers, and the sense of closure that tingled beneath all his thoughts.

He was smiling as he whispered, “Thank you.”

 

_End_


End file.
